


No sweeter song than my love language on your tongue

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Fluff, Multi, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23383285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: And they love, they love, and they love each other some more. In all the ways they can, and there are so many ways.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Four Horsepersons of the Apocalypse & The Them (Good Omens), Lesley | International Express Man/Maud, Ligur/Michael (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling/Adam Young
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	1. Words of Affirmation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Ye Saga Continues Zine, this is my main piece and was so much fun to do. All of the affection for these earthly delights

After, not very much after but  **_after_ ** , Aziraphale has a very stern talk with himself. About all the things he’s wanted over the millennia; appreciation, good food, comfortable clothes, a good friend. About how very wrong he’s been about Heaven and how wrong he was for passing judgement on anyone— _ Crowley _ —when that’s firmly the place of the Almighty.

Though, after  **_after_ ** , Aziraphale has another, more blasphemous talk with himself about just how justified the Almighty is in judging  _ anyone _ anymore. That talk ends with a half dozen bottles of very good wine and Crowley sprawled off on his couch.

The conversation that matters though, the one Aziraphale sits himself in front of a mirror to have, is about Crowley. A Demon to be quite sure, a creature Aziraphale is meant to hate and mistrust, but a person he’s loved for a very long time and done absolutely nothing about.

Crowley is his best friend and oldest companion, and Aziraphale looks himself in the eyes for the very first time as he says it.

“I love him,” and his lower lip trembles and his stomach flips, “I love Crowley.”

There’s no divine lightning bolt striking him down, no angelic host riding out to perish him. Not even a bookshop fire. There’s nothing but Aziraphale’s own half-terrified face and something soft blooming in his chest as the words hang cautiously in the quiet.

They’re brittle and delicate and make his heart throb with uncertainty but they’re real and true and Aziraphale doesn’t drag them back. He does not snatch up the closest book and bury himself in the words of long dead men; he does not. Instead, he gets up and finds his phone, which has inexplicably moved halfway across the shop, and invites Crowley out to dinner.

And really, not much changes between them. Despite not having reports to submit and looking over their shoulders more and keeping eagle eyes on news reports all over the world, nothing very much changes.

Except…well, except Aziraphale lets himself say things.

When Crowley holds a door open for him, he says thank you and Crowley doesn’t tell him to shut up about it. When they sit down for a nice dinner or a scrumptious lunch— _ even breakfasts, now that no one’s watching _ —Aziraphale compliments all the lovely things he loves about Crowley that he never dared to before. 

“That shirt suits you, my dear,” he says carefully when they have breakfast together. Crowley still doesn’t eat much, only when Aziraphale insists he try a tasty little bite, but he’s there, and they’re together.

“I say, well done, darling!” Aziraphale laughs, just a touch giddy, and Crowley preens. The stall owner smiles winsomely and hands Aziraphale a tiny stuffed dove from the bottom shelf of prizes. Both of them are blushing, flushed really, and the carnival lights flicker a touch brighter.

“Oh this  _ is _ lovely,” Aziraphale murmurs, glancing idly round at the precious little café. There’s an angel painted on the ceiling and a handsome devil on the wall, but every table has a framed picture of a very  _ human _ artist.

“Welcome to Earthly Delights, may I take your order?” an entirely human server asks and Aziraphale smiles.


	2. Sharing Quality Time

They’ve always been busy. They’re the embodiment of human destruction and ills and solemn inevitability; there’s always work to do. They’ve never had a day off, never met up for lunch or just to catch up, and sometime after the Apocalypsain’t, one of them— _ all of them _ —think “ _ huh, why not? _ ”

Carmine thinks it first, when she’s sighting through a sniper’s scope in the Middle East, and shoots out the engine block on a Humvee. There’s a ping of metal, frantic cursing, and a spill of oil, and Blanc pops into her head. She’s reloading as the soldiers spill out of their dead car but her heart’s not in it.

Sable thinks it next, when he’s back in his restaurant and idly perusing menus. He knows something didn’t happen right but can’t remember what, so he doesn’t bother himself with it. He’s scratching at the dog bite on his leg when a diner’s heart gives out. Sable looks up as the man dies— _ gets the impression of eternity shaped into wings closing around a mortal soul _ —and frowns as he goes back to his menus.

Blanc makes it happen. When they’re sitting in a national park scheduled for land development, they look at the equipment that’s already broken the earth and decide it’s as good a place as any. Getting the protesters whipped up into a riotous rage is…not hard. Different but not hard; they were already on the edge. Suggesting a few of them hunger strike is harder, humans like to eat, but Blanc is on a mission and the protesters are determined.

The death is the hardest. No one wants to be the first to fall but someone has to. Blanc almost pulls the trigger themself, but a friendly policeman does it instead. Blanc bursts an oil pipe for good measure.

“Did you do all this?” Carmine asks first, shoving aside rioting protestors. Blanc smiles. She’s looking well, lack of sword aside, and Blanc accepts the casual arm slung around their shoulders.

“Good job kid!” Sable laughs next, climbing the slope up to where Blanc’s standing above it all. There’s tear gas getting fired into the crowd and shots ringing out, a fine mess of chaos, and they laugh with Sable.

Death doesn’t say anything when he appears behind them, but Blanc feels unreal wings wrapping around all three of them. All four of them together again, it feels good, feels  _ right _ , and Blanc can’t help a traitorous little thought worming into their head. Something along the lines of, “ _ maybe it was a good thing the Apocalypse didn’t happen _ .”

Right tosh that is. They were made **_for_** the Apocalypse, it’s what all their lives have been leading up to, but Blanc wonders if they were meant for this too. If they were meant to have Carmine’s arm curled warm around their shoulders, warm like fresh blood and rage. If they weren’t meant to appreciate Sable’s quiet company, quiet like the inevitability of a slow end. Or to have Death standing with eternal wings spread, so close and inextricably part of _Them._

Blanc can’t help but think  _ this  _ is better than the Apocalypse, as blasphemous as that might be. 

Down below, the mortals start to run, get arrested, get carted off in blaring ambulances, but they don’t  _ stop _ . And Blanc is treacherously glad they didn’t help end these petty little people. They’re glad the earth gets to keep existing because it lets them have  _ this _ . And they quite like this.


	3. Physical Affection

He thinks about telling Maud what’s happened to him today. He really does. She’s his best friend and he loves her more’n anything, but…well, how’s a bloke start on something like that?

“Died today love, sorry, but I got better,” he’d say, and she’d say, “Are you feeling alright, dear?” and press a hand to his forehead to feel for a fever. And if he insisted, said it was true and he’d seen the end of everything, she’d start ringing the doctor before he finished.

So Lesley does not tell Maud about his most eventful day at work. Instead, he tells her work was murder’n how much he loves her. Kisses her long and slow and enjoys it like a nice glass of wine after a too-long shift. He cups her face gentle like and breathes in her new perfume, the honey one, and commits every bit of this to memory.

And, later, when he decides to take the day off and meets her for lunch, he says, “Why don’t we head down to the old river today?”

Because Lesley remembers delivering a package there and he remembers how run down the old place had been. He can’t remember the person he delivered to or exactly what he said to the tall, dark bloke after, but that’s not for him to wonder. Maud doesn’t either, but she does tell him they can’t, not today at least, and Lesley agrees after he’s had a think.

They go a week later with half the village trailing behind. Near everyone’s been down to the river once or twice and got fond memories of the place; they want to help clean it up. And Lesley’s glad he waited to arrange all their help because it’s hard going for a while.

Lesley boots up in old galoshes and Maud ties back her hair with a kerchief, and it’s almost like they’re kids again. He fishes out plastic bags and soggy boxes and Maud bags up chip packets and bottles, and they sweat like anything, but it’s worth it in the end when the sun’s just setting and everyone’s sprawled out on the clean banks.

There’s talks about getting this place protected, officially and the like, and there’s rumblings about a proper grill up. Some of the kids went riding off to the shops and now they’re racing back with baskets of sausages and eggs and meat of everyone’s choice, but Lesley’s pretty alright right here. For now, at least.

“We did a good job, don’t you think, Tiger?” Maud mumbles, leaning against him, and Lesley can still smell her honey perfume under the sweat. He can hear the smile in her voice and the love, always so much love.

“Not too shabby,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to her forehead and taking it all in.

He remembers kissing her for the very first time right on this bank, nervous like anything and sweating, but she tasted like summer strawberries and smelled like clean grass and it was amazing. And then the time they came here with their very own car, paid up by both of them; how she looked in the moonlight, how beautiful.

There’s no moon tonight, wrong time of the month for it, but there’s a few early stars peeping out and there’s a cool breeze rustling through the trees. There’s the chattering of the kids throwing down their bikes and hurrying up, and there’s even some music piping out from the cars. Maybe, after they’ve had a bite to eat, Maud will have a dance with him and they can pretend like it’s the first time all over again.

“Not too shabby at all, love,” he smiles.


	4. Gifts

Michael, unlike Gabriel, is fully willing to bend the rules, twist, and squeeze them in his hands until they’re soft and malleable. He’s the one that established the backchannels, made contact with former associates, and organized beneficial…Arrangements at the very beginning. Michael does as he sees fit, and right now, fit is…standing in a grimy stairwell and waiting.

And waiting-waiting-waiting.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” he mutters, clicking his nails on the rail, arranging his cuffs.

He’s not worried, not a bit. He  _ knows _ everything has been set back in place, the Anti-Christ saw to that, so Michael is very much  _ not _ worried. Oh, yes, of course there was a trial about this, Ligur’s death and Crowley’s part in it, but as far as Michael cares, it was all an excuse to punish the snake for his real crime of delaying the Apocalypse. Michael has no doubt Ligur was set to rights— _ like all the rest of reality _ —when the Anti-Christ saw fit to maul it between his prepubescent hands.

Michael would call, but reception’s rather terrible right here and he can’t be sure where Ligur might find himself now and…Michael would rather wait. The act of waiting implies a payoff somewhere down the line; if one waits long enough, they will be rewarded with a result. In this case, Michael’s waiting will end in Ligur clomping up the stairs with a cheeky smirk and some new bit of information to sell.

Michael is entirely sure of it they’ve been doing this for some time now— _ six thousand years _ —and are entirely set in their ways. Ligur has been discreetly sneaking up and Michael has been surreptitiously climbing down since the Arrangement was struck. They meet on the ground floor, perfectly between their respective offices, every Tuesday at four and it would hardly do to change things now.

So, Michael waits. He stands at prim attention with his hands folded behind his back and his head held high, and he waits for hours. Listening for a distinctive shuffling step, sniffing for that particular bite of brimstone, and refusing to give up.

“Hallo there, white wings,” Ligur rumbles as he finally— _ finally _ —climbs the last step with something like amusement in his voice. And Michael unfolds, falls out of his rigid posture, and lets himself have one aching second of relief.

Because here is Ligur, back again from a place of non-being. Here is Ligur, healthy and hale with a smile more brittle than Michael’s ever seen. There’s not a bit of damage on him, his chameleon is vibrant, his eyes are bright, and there’s a stain on his aura that Michael simply cannot describe.

“I’ve been waiting here for hours,” Michael says, it’s meant to be a complaint but there’s a dangerously sharp edge to it. Something from the days of smiting and war, something almost like anger but certainly  _ not _ because there’s nothing to be angry  _ at _ .

Ligur’s very much alive and that’s as it  _ should  _ be. This is not a gift, or a second chance, and certainly  **_not_ ** a miracle.

“Office’s a mess and the Boss ain’t too happy.” Ligur shrugs. Michael does not like it, but he does understand; Heaven’s much the same right now.

“Well you’re here now. Shall we?” Michael asks, gesturing grandly at the side door. He does not say any of the things he would very much like to, such as “ _ Where were you for Crowley’s trial?” _ or “ _ How are you alive now?” _

Acknowledging it would be looking a miracle horse in the mouth and Michael unfortunately knows about horses. If he says it,  _ says anything _ , his gift horse might decide to kick him in the teeth and leave him bleeding on the ground. Oh no, much better to hold his arm out and sniff primly. 

“We shall, white wings,” Ligur says, looping their arms together, and they step out into the soft London night, together. 


	5. Acts of Service

When he’s eleven, Warlock goes to someplace in the Middle East with his parents. It’s hot and dusty and Mom mutters under her breath the whole way there; on the plane, in the hotel room,  **_and_ ** in the car. Dad doesn’t tell them why they’re all coming this time and Warlock…doesn’t ask, he can’t remember why.

Nothing happens out there. They see some avocado trees and visit a boring temple and Mom complains until Dad buys her a pretty bracelet. Warlock remembers the bracelet best because it gets his mom to smile one of her really, really happy smiles.

When he’s sixteen, he gets enrolled in a normal,  _ not-for-Ambassadors’-kids _ school, and meets a boy named Adam with a dog called Dog. They have English and Math together, and when Warlock doesn’t know where to sit for lunch the first day, Adam drags him over to a table to meet his other friends. He also gives Warlock a lemon drop from a ripped bag and Warlock smiles one of his secret happy smiles, the kind he hides from Dad.

At the end of the first week, when he gets home on Friday, Warlock doesn’t lock himself in his room  **_or_ ** go see his mom. When he gets home on that Friday, Warlock races off into the garden, hops the fence, and tears down the road to the cottage all the way at the end. He’s sweaty and his heart’s ready to burst but Crowley is there by the gate, waiting for him.

“I made a friend! He’s so cool, his name’s Adam and he thinks my name is cool and…” it all comes out over the kitchen table.

Crowley sits with a fond smile and makes the right noises in all the right places as Warlock babbles about Adam. There’s iced tea, the American kind, and biscuits, the British kind, and Warlock smiles the kinda smile his dad would approve of. The big, five-hundred-watt kind that should go with a booming voice and firm handshake.

Later Crowley walks him back home and smooths things over with Mom, so Warlock doesn’t get in trouble. Mom  _ likes _ Crowley, said he’s just like the Nanny they used to have, and Warlock never tells her that Crowley is Nanny; that would be  _ rude _ and rude’s for people who  _ aren’t _ Crowley.

The semester drags and flashes past and Warlock has no idea how it does that. He goes to a fair over in Tadfield, where Adam lives, and they take turns driving Adam’s friend’s car. He thinks Dick Turpin is a weird name for a car, but he doesn’t ask why it’s called that. The friend looks really disappointed about that but Adam laughs so hard he doubles over so Warlock doesn’t pretend to be sorry.

He gets to meet all of Adam’s friends, the Them of course, but there’s some weird adults too, and Dog. And when it’s Christmas break, he gets to take Adam with him to visit Aziraphale’s shop in Soho because it’s full of old books and Adam loves books. They spend whole days there over the break, drinking cocoa and messing around in town, and groaning obnoxiously whenever Aziraphale and Crowley get overly lovey-dovey.

Christmas day is for family, but Adam organizes a trip with half their class for New Year’s and they all head to the river with tons of snacks and firecrackers. No one says Adam did it because Warlock’s never been to a  _ proper _ New Year’s party but it’s true.

There’s music from speakers, more food than they can eat, and pops and bangs every second. Then the countdown, five, four, three…and Adam’s lips on his at one. Happy New Year!

Afterwards they both blush red hot, but they hold hands all the way home. And later, when Crowley asks, Warlock finally gets to say, “ _ a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell _ ” and laugh along with Aziraphale at Crowley’s stunned face. 


End file.
